by Cathy Glass
I was hungry – in fact I was starving, and my stomach was growling. But the thought of sitting and eating with her and her family while my mum was alone at home, and poor Tommy was God knows where, was more than I could bear. I suddenly felt very hot and knew I had to be alone.
‘I’m not hungry,’ I lied. ‘Just tired. Can I have a lie-down?’
‘Of course you can, love,’ she said, patting me kindly on the shoulder. ‘You’ve had quite a stressful day. I’ll show you to your room. Perhaps you’ll feel like something to eat later?’ I thought, again, that in a different place and time I could actually like this woman.
I followed her out of the front room and up the stairs. A kid was coming down.
‘This is Callum,’ Libby said as we passed. ‘Callum, this is Ryan.’
He looked at me and nodded. I nodded back. He was taller than me and chunkier. He was wearing a Nike hoodie and tracky bottoms just like the ones I’d wanted for Christmas but my mum hadn’t managed to save up for.
‘I’ll be down in a minute,’ Libby called after Callum.
At the top of the stairs I followed her across the landing and she opened the door at the end. ‘Make yourself at home,’ she said. ‘Hopefully your social worker will come with your things later. If not I have some spare that’ll fit. Come down as soon as you feel ready.’ She smiled again and went out, closing the door behind her.
Me, wear someone else’s clothes? I don’t think so!
Chapter Three
The smell of dinner floated upstairs and it smelt good. I felt my stomach cramp. I kicked off my trainers, lay on the bed and leant back. The bed was really comfortable, like the sofa downstairs. The duvet and pillows had blue stripes and looked brand new. There was even a cushioned end to rest your head on. The room had a wardrobe, a chest of drawers, a small desk with a matching chair and only one bed.
At home Tommy and me always shared the bunk beds – me at the top and him underneath. I thought of Tommy and Mum and a lump came into my throat, like I was going to cry. I knew it was my fault we were in the mess we were. My fault Tommy and me had been taken into care. My fault we’d been split up (I was a bad influence on him). My fault I couldn’t keep out of trouble, which probably made it my fault my mum couldn’t get off the drink.
Where did it all go wrong? I wondered, slipping further down the bed and staring up at the ceiling. Or perhaps my life had always been wrong, right from the start? Right from that night nearly thirteen years ago when Mum had got so drunk she was ‘taken advantage of’, as she put it. The following morning she couldn’t even remember what the bloke had looked like. That’s the trouble with drink: it rubs out your memory. So nine months later God sent her a reminder – in the form of me. With no details of my dad to prove me wrong, I decided he could be a big strong policeman, just like you see on The Bill. Why not? He could be.
I don’t know about Tommy’s dad – Mum never said who he was. But I have the feeling that Mum ‘getting taken advantage of’ with Tommy was worse than mine. Mum came home very drunk and beaten up one night about nine months before Tommy was born. My family isn’t much different from many families on the estate – no dad, and a mum who drowns her sorrows in a bottle or takes drugs. In fact, men are in such short supply on our estate that they’re shared – amongst the kids for repairing bikes, and amongst the mums for ‘a night in with Uncle Bill’.
I must have dozed off, for suddenly there was a knocking on the bedroom door and Libby’s voice saying, ‘Ryan, you OK? It’s nine o’clock. Can I come in?’
‘Yeah.’ I struggled up the bed.
The door opened and Libby came in, carrying Mum’s old suitcase. I stared at it surprised. It was kept in the cupboard under the stairs at home. The last time she’d used it was when she’d gone into hospital to have Tommy.
‘Your social worker dropped your things by earlier,’ Libby said, smiling. ‘We decided not to wake you as you were fast asleep. Sarah said to tell you she saw your mum and she’s fine and sends her love.’ Libby crossed the room and put the suitcase by the bed.
Mum’s fine and sends her love? What the hell was she talking about? Mum wouldn’t be fine; she’d be out of her mind with worry, very likely blotto by now. And what was Mum thinking of, sending her suitcase with my clothes in? Didn’t she know I would be on my way back home soon? Suddenly I felt very rejected and sorry for myself, like Mum didn’t want me.
‘Are you ready for some dinner now?’ Libby asked. ‘Brendon has done his homework and is in bed. Callum is in the shower. My hubby, Fynn, is on the late shift, so you’ll meet him tomorrow.’
I shook my head. I still couldn’t face the thought of eating strange food in a stranger’s house, and I always did us fish fingers and chips on Wednesdays at home.
‘All right, love,’ Libby said kindly. ‘You’ll have to make up for it at breakfast. You’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep and with some of your things around you.’
I nodded but couldn’t look at her. Sorry, Libby, I thought, I won’t be here for breakfast.
‘Would you like some help unpacking?’ she asked kindly.
‘Na, I’ll see to it.’
‘All right, if you’re sure. If there’s anything you need just let me know.
‘There is one thing, Libby,’ I said, hoping my voice wouldn’t give my thoughts away.
‘Yes, love?’
‘Duffy, I mean my social worker, said about my allowance. Could I have it, please?’
‘What, now?’
‘Yeah, if that’s OK.’
‘But you won’t have anything to spend it on tonight.’
I realised Libby was a bit sharper than I’d given her credit for, probably from years of looking after kids like me, but I could be sharp too. ‘My social worker’s sent my phone,’ I said, ‘and I need to top it up so I can phone my friends. I’ll just pop to the corner shop. I won’t be long.’
‘And your social worker knows you have your mobile?’
I nodded. ‘I asked her to bring it. It’ll be in the case.’ Whether it was in the case or not I didn’t know, but I didn’t think Libby would challenge me – not when I’d just arrived.
‘Saturday is usually pocket-money day,’ she said, ‘but I can let you have it early this week. However, I’d rather we stopped off at the shop on the way to school in the morning, than you go out now. It’s getting late. I’ll be taking you to school in the car, so we’ll just leave a bit earlier. If you want to talk to your friends now, you can use the landline in the front room – as long as you’re not phoning Australia.’ She gave a little laugh and I realised I was beaten. I’d have to go back to plan A – do a runner once she was in bed.
Libby disappeared and then returned ten minutes later, to my delight, with £8.50 and a glass of water. ‘Here,’ she said, tucking the money under my pillow, ‘keep it safe until morning. You’ll feel better knowing it’s there.’ Nice lady! I thought. ‘And have a drink,’ she said. ‘You need a drink, even if you’re not hungry. I’ve put a towel for you in the bathroom; the bathroom’s straight across the landing. Shall I show you around the house now, or do you want to wait until tomorrow?’
‘Tomorrow, please. I’m very tired.’ I yawned to prove the point.
‘All right, love. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, Libby.’
As soon as the door closed I slipped off the bed, opened Mum’s suitcase and began digging through it for my phone. I caught a whiff of the musty smell that’s always in our house – a mixture of damp and stale booze – and it made me feel very homesick. I continued searching for my mobile.
I’d never seen all my clothes together before. They were normally strewn around the bedroom or waiting to be washed. Seeing them all together made me realise how scruffy I must look compared to Brendon and Callum, or the kids at school. Mum had packed my other school trousers but they were filthy, and so was the pair I was wearing. I dug to the bottom of the case; then tipped it upside down, but there was no phone.
Shit! Whatever was Mum thinking? But at least I had the £8.50 so I had bus fare home.
Chapter Four
I sat back down on the bed and watched the clock on the wall. Ten minutes passed and I heard Callum finish in the shower and go to his bedroom. Everything went quiet.
At ten o’clock Libby came up and called: ‘Goodnight, Callum,’ from outside his door.
He called back: ‘Night!’
It went quiet again and I wondered if Libby had gone to bed. She said her old man was on lates, so as soon as Libby was in bed asleep I could escape. I needed a pee, which would give me a chance to check things out.
Crossing my room, I opened the door. The landing light was on but the house seemed quiet. I crossed the landing to the door opposite, which Libby had said was the bathroom, and pushed open the door. The extractor fan came on with the light to reveal a gleaming, sparkling white bathroom. So clean and white it looked like something from a TV ad. There was a big mirror over the basin, and when I lifted the lid on the bog there was nothing horrible stuck to the sides.
I had a pee, flushed it and washed my hands. There was a clean blue towel neatly folded over the bath and I guessed it was the one Libby had said she’d put in here for me. I dried my hands and, as I did, I caught a glimpse of my face in the mirror. I looked even paler than I normally did – grey almost. Hardly surprising with everything that was going on, I thought. I opened the bathroom door and switched off the light.
Libby appeared from the top of the stairs in her dressing gown and slippers. ‘You all right, love?’ she asked, smiling warmly.
‘Yeah. I needed a pee. I’m off to bed now.’
‘OK. I won’t be late either – I’m done for.’ She smiled again and hesitated, and I had the feeling she would have liked to give me a big hug. I hoped she wouldn’t get into trouble with the social when she found me gone in the morning.
I lay on the bed again, watched the clock and waited. I wondered about the other foster kids who had slept in this room – the other kids she’d fostered. Why were they in care? It was 10.45 p.m. when I heard Libby come up the stairs, the landing light click off and her bedroom door close. I gave her another fifteen minutes; then I quietly slithered off the bed and put on my trainers.
I could feel my heart thumping in my chest, and I also felt strangely light-headed, probably from not having eaten all day. I took a couple of swigs of the water Libby had left for me, then began creeping slowly and quietly across the carpeted floor. I switched off the bedroom light before I opened the door. I paused and listened, my hand on the door ready to close it if I heard anything, but all was quiet. Fortunately Libby had left a night light on, so the landing and stairs weren’t completely dark.
I took one step on to the landing and paused and listened again. Still quiet; not a sound. I turned and slowly closed the bedroom door. I didn’t want anyone going to the bathroom in the night and discovering me missing. The longer I had to get away the better.
With my heart thumping and my mouth dry, I crept across the landing and began moving carefully down the stairs. Thank God Libby had carpet everywhere. You couldn’t have done this at my house – the lino would have given you away. There was still enough light coming from the landing to see the hall and front door. I saw the chain and the bolt on the front door, and then the lock with the key still in it. Someone was on my side and watching over me!
Very carefully, hardly daring to breathe, I crept up to the door and unhooked the chain. Then I knelt down and leant against the door with my shoulder, so that the bolt slid out of its barrel easily and noiselessly. There was just the key now. Libby was certainly one for security! Straightening, I took the key between my thumb and forefinger and slowly turned. It was stiff, but then it suddenly went with a loud click. I glanced up the stairs behind me as I pulled open the door. The cold night air rushed in.
Then I was on the path, quietly closing the door; then running like hell down the pavement. Down Stratford Road and left at the top. I felt the cold air catch my throat. First right and I was on the High Street, which was quiet at 11 p.m. on a weekday. I slowed to a walk; if a police patrol car saw a kid my age running along the street late at night they’d stop. I know this, as most of my mates have been picked up at one time or another late at night; some of them make a habit of it.
I arrived at the bus stop. I was the only person waiting, and I’d no idea how long it would be before a bus came. There’d been a timetable in a glass case fixed to the bus stop at some point, but it was long gone. The glass was broken and the case filled with rubbish – chewing gum and fag ends. The February night air was freezing and I only had on my old school jacket, no coat. I wondered if I should walk to the next stop to keep warm, but the bus might come when I was between stops, so I decided to wait. I drew up the collar on my jacket and pulled in my head. Cars passed every so often but no bus came. I knew the 247 was supposed to run every twenty minutes, so I decided I must have just missed one.
Another couple of minutes passed. Then a flashy silver car pulled into the kerb and the driver lowered his window. He was middle aged, fat, bald and slimy. I knew immediately what he was after.
‘You look cold, little boy,’ he said, leering. ‘Can I give you a lift?’
‘Na.’
‘I’d make it worth your while.’
I drew my head deeper into my jacket and turned away.
‘How does twenty quid sound and a lift to wherever you want to go?’
My blood boiled. I span round and kicked his car. ‘Piss off, you pervert! My dad’s a policeman.’ I kicked the car again. He made a V sign as his window rose and he sped away. That’s the trouble with being my age: the world is full of pervs like him.
Two minutes later and, to my relief, the 247 bus came into view. All the lights were on and it looked so warm and welcoming. I’ve never been so pleased to see a bus before. I was going home. It drew to a halt and the doors swished open. I stepped on to the platform and dug my hands into my trouser pockets. It was then I realised I’d left the £8.50 under the pillow at Libby’s!
‘Bollocks!’ I cursed. Then to the driver: ‘I’ve left me money at home.’
He tutted. ‘You’re a bit young to be out this late.’
‘I’ve been visiting a sick relative,’ I lied.
He tutted again. ‘I’ve seen you before on the buses, with your brother. You live on the Pellinger Park estate, don’t you?’
‘Yeah. That’s where I’m going. Sorry, can I pay you another time?’
He was a decent guy and I guess he felt sorry for me. He nodded. ‘Hop on.’
‘Thanks, mister. I’ll pay you as soon as I can.’
Chapter Five
Half an hour later the bus pulled into the terminus at the end of my estate, and me and a woman with a bloke got off. I vaguely knew the woman but she was too busy necking with the bloke to notice me. I’d never been out alone on the estate this late before; only the crackheads with their dogs were out now. It was dark, even with the street lamps on, and I ran flat out, taking the short cuts down the alleys, until I got to my row of houses. It’s called Conker Terrace, although there’s not a tree in sight. I live at number nine. I went round the back – we always use the back door, although I knew Mum would have locked it by now.
The light was on in the living room and, as I looked through the window, I could see Mum sitting on the sofa staring at the telly, but it wasn’t switched on. She was so still and starey that for a moment I thought she might be dead. But then I saw the empty bottle by her chair and realised it was the drink. I tapped on the glass and she jumped. As she turned I saw the pain and fear in her eyes in the second before she saw it was me. Then it changed to relief and a different sort of pain – like her heart had been broken in two.
‘Ryan!’ she cried as she opened the door, flinging her arms around me. ‘Ryan, my baby!’ She squeezed and hugged me for all she was worth. I smelt the booze and felt her unsteady on her feet. I wrapped my arms tightly around h
er and buried my head in her shoulder. I knew she wasn’t perfect, but she was my mum and I loved her dearly.
We went inside and she shut and locked the door. Then we stood hugging for some time. She was the same height as me but thinner; the booze saw to that – she never ate. After a while I felt her pull away. Although she’d been drinking she wasn’t drunk, her words weren’t slurred and her mind was astute.
‘How did you get here, son?’ she asked, anxiously.
‘Bus.’
‘From where?’
‘Other side of town. Didn’t they tell you where they were taking me?’
Mum shook her head and her brow creased. ‘All they told me was that you’d be safe and well cared for, and that was all I needed to know. The social workers said you’d be put with carers in the area so that you could go to the same school. There were two of them: Duffy and someone new.’
‘Mum, where’s Tommy?’
She shook her head again, and tears sprang to her eyes. ‘They wouldn’t tell me. They said he would be staying in the area but at a different address to you. I said if the social had to take you both into care, then couldn’t they keep you together? They said it wasn’t possible, that they didn’t have a carer who could take both of you, and anyway it was better if you were apart.’ She was crying openly now, and looked so tired and old – far older than she should have done. She was only thirty-three but already had lines and grey hair – a mixture of booze, fags and worry, I guess.
I suddenly felt shivery and dizzy, like I might faint.
‘You all right, son?’ Mum asked.
‘Na.’ I went to the sofa and sat down. The room span and there were funny jazzy patterns on the walls. ‘Don’t feel so good,’ I mumbled.
‘I’ll get you a hot sweet drink,’ she said. ‘You eaten?’